The Long Walk Home (28 page)

Bridget felt Manners was her way to success and the riches she craved. He wore gold rings on his fingers and a glittering chain round his neck. That first journey into London, when Tully had shown her the fine houses, had whetted her appetite for more than he could give her for thieving; but Manners was canny. Although he had invited her to stay with him on several occasions, he had given her no more than a good chop supper and not the gold she yearned for. He also kept the knuckle of his thumb on her throat as he gave her a tender kiss goodbye and said, 'Be good, Bridget, and not a word about anything you might see or hear in this house.'

She saw and heard plenty, for she was astute and quick to observe whilst feigning naivety. But one thing she couldn't fathom was Tully's connection with Manners. They seemed to be as thick as the thieves they were, and although Manners appeared to have the upper hand, she knew Tully to be a wily old fox who looked out only for himself.

Now she glanced at Eleanor and then back at Mikey. 'So you'd best keep little Miss Prim out of it,' she said peevishly. 'She'd be like butter in their hands.'

'Good day to you, madam.'

The gentleman coming towards Eleanor across the shop floor was dressed in a dark frock coat. He bowed his head and shoulders deeply. She wondered if she looked older than she was; she'd pinned back her hair into a neat and severe chignon underneath her hat. Aunt Marie was waiting discreetly on a corner further down the street; because, she had told her, anybody could tell that I'm lower down the scale than you and I don't want to spoil your chances.

'May I be of assistance?' he intoned in a sepulchral voice.

'I would like to speak to the manager, if you please,' she said.

He bowed again. 'At your service, madam. Are you recently bereaved?'

Eleanor felt a flutter of trepidation. 'Not recently,' she said quietly. 'But I find myself in the position of needing to find employment.' She hoped that he would assume from that statement that she had lost her parents and was now without financial or familial support. 'I have come to enquire whether you might have a suitable situation.'

Before he had time to do more than raise a questioning eyebrow, she went on, 'I am of a steady disposition and compassionate nature, and although I have no previous working experience I feel that I can fulfil the role.'

'I see.' He ran his hand over his long chin. 'I gather that you will not have references?'

'No,' she said. 'I have not, nor anyone to vouch for me except my brother, who has had to discontinue his studies and also find work.' Only a small lie, she considered, since Simon would perhaps have gone to university had he not run away from home.

'Most unfortunate,' he murmured. 'We none of us know what lies ahead.'

'Perhaps that's just as well,' Eleanor returned, 'for we might not be able to cope with what we knew was in front of us.'

'Indeed.' He nodded gravely, and invited her to sit down.

'At the moment we are fully staffed. I have an assistant and also a young man who is able to fill the position of mute if the occasion demands. We have sewing ladies, of course, but I deduce that this would not be a suitable position for you.'

'I can sew, of course,' she said demurely, 'but I hadn't thought of it as an occupation. I rather thought that I could be of assistance to ladies who have been bereaved.'

He nodded again and patted his mouth with long white fingers. 'I do know someone who has recently lost an assistant and has advertised for another, though I think he was looking for a young gentleman rather than a young lady.'

'Could you give me his name or company?' she asked. 'It might be worth my enquiring.'

'I will do more than that,' he said, and raising his hand gave it a little shake. 'I will take you to him myself. Just give me one moment, ah . . . and your name is?'

'Miss Eleanor Kendall, lately of Hull.'

'Very well, Miss Kendall. I will inform my assistant that I am slipping out. It isn't far,' he added. 'Just a little further along the street.'

He returned wearing a greatcoat with a black velvet collar and in his place came a younger man, also dressed in black, who bowed to Eleanor.

Aunt Marie had already informed her that the mourning establishments were grouped together in Oxford Street, except for Peter Robinson's, a high-class establishment which was situated in Regent Street.

'May I ask your name?' Eleanor ventured as the manager directed her along the pavement. 'Ashe,' he said. 'Claude Ashe.'

Eleanor thought how well the name suited his grey countenance.

They arrived at a shop front where the window was filled with wooden adult mannequins dressed in black bombazine or crape, and neat feathered caps; around their feet was draped purple cloth, whilst smaller models depicting children were dressed in grey with white sashes. On stands at the back of the window black top hats and gloves were displayed.

Eleanor felt a sinking of her spirits. Did she really want to work in such a dismal establishment? But the shop bell was discreetly signalling their entrance and a young man was coming forward to meet them.

'Claude, my dear fellow. How do you do?' He eyed Eleanor with interest and bowed. 'Madam.'

'Miss Kendall, may I introduce Mr Christopher Henry?' Ashe said. 'Christopher, Miss Kendall finds herself in need of employment and I know you were looking for someone suitable to fill a vacancy.'

Eleanor dipped her knee. 'Good morning, Mr Henry. I would be pleased if you would honour me with an interview, though regretfully I cannot offer any references. I have recently come to London in search of my only brother who, because of his own circumstances, is not able to assist me.'

Once more she was invited to sit and Mr Ashe took his leave of them, receiving her thanks for his assistance with yet another deep bow.

Christopher Henry was a different character altogether from his colleague. Far from having a gloomy appearance he looked quite merry, and began by asking her where she was from and how she had found herself in London. She told the truth as far as possible, stretching it when need be and telling him that she was in sore need of employment to pay for accommodation so that she did not have to depend on friends to support or house her.

He sat on the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles as he listened to her and she thought that perhaps it wouldn't be too bad working for a man like this. He had a pleasant open face and she wondered how he would apply himself to someone recently bereaved. She was to find out very quickly. The doorbell pealed, but as if by instinct he had already slid down from the counter, adjusted his cravat, and was walking solemnly towards the door to greet the woman who came in. She was weeping copiously.

'My dear madam,' he said softly. In response to a lift of his eyebrows in her direction Eleanor rose from the chair, and he propelled the woman towards it and gently sat her down. 'You have had a great shock, I can tell. Let me ease the pain for you. Your father, was it? No?' The woman shook her head. 'Do not tell me it was your husband?'

The woman broke into greater spasms of weeping and he patted her hand. 'And so young for widowhood.'

Eleanor thought this was overdoing it as the woman was easily forty and must have had at least twenty years of marriage.

'Miss Kendall,' Mr Henry said. 'Would you be so kind as to offer another woman's comfort whilst I obtain a small glass of sherry? Would that help, madam? Mrs . . .'

'Green.' The woman murmured that it would, as she felt quite faint. Eleanor asked her if she wouldn't have preferred a companion to come with her.

'I have no one to ask,' Mrs Green said. 'Only my parents, and they did not care for my husband.'

Eleanor made murmurs of condolence until Mr Henry came back with a small glass on a tray. To their astonishment, Mrs Green gulped the sherry down in one swallow.

'Will you attend the funeral, madam?' Mr Henry asked. 'It is quite proper not to if you prefer.'

'Oh, but I will,' Mrs Green said. 'I need to show the world that I regret nothing. I wish you to make me full mourning, if you please.'

Eleanor helped Mrs Green to choose a suitable fabric of black velvet and Mr Henry called for a sewing woman from the back room to take her measurements. Eleanor saw how the client perked up considerably as the pattern was described and accessories suggested, a widow's cap, gloves and jet; and so her apprenticeship into the world of mourning and funereal rites began.

'There you are, m'dear,' Aunt Marie said when they met up again. 'I knew you were the tops for that kind of work, and now you'll be an independent woman and not 'ave to rely on your brother.'

So I will, Eleanor thought, feeling a faint glow of satisfaction. She would be able to pay for lodgings, which presented her with another dilemma. Wapping was too far to travel into London each day, and although Aunt Marie's house was nearer, and Eleanor knew the old woman would be glad of the rent, she couldn't envisage sleeping in a chair when she had to get up for work the next day.

I'll have to look for lodgings, she thought, and again asked Marie's advice.

'I know just the person,' she said. 'A pal o' mine has a lodging 'ouse just off Regent Street. Her husband is a tailor. We'll go now and see if we can get you fixed up.'

That sounds all right, Eleanor thought. I hope I can afford the rent. She had seen the fine shops in Oxford Street and Regent Street and thought it would be an excellent place to live, rather like living in the High Street at home, where they were right in the centre of things. However, doubts crept in at Aunt Marie's next words.

'Course, it won't be what you're used to, but it'll probably do you for the time being until you find your way about and get an increase in pay.'

Eleanor knew that she wouldn't be earning much to begin with until she had proved her worth, but Mr Henry had told her with a twinkle in his eye that he didn't think that would take very long.

Her heart sank as Aunt Marie led her off the main thoroughfare and into a maze of alleyways and courts. It was gloomy, even though it was not yet midday, with only a small strip of light showing above the rooftops. Some of the alleys were thick with mud and debris and there was a stink of foul air.

'Aunt Marie! I don't think I can—' she began to protest.

'We're nearly there, m'dear. Don't you look at the mess underfoot. My pal keeps a clean 'ouse, very particular she is.' She led Eleanor round one more corner to another court of a dozen houses, six on either side within touching distance of each other, with a privy and a tap at one end.

Marie knocked on the first door and waited, nodding her head confidentially at Eleanor.

I can't possibly stay in a place like this, Eleanor thought. I just can't. I'll die! It's as bad as, if not worse than, the house where Simon is living.

The door opened and Marie greeted her friend. 'Here, Liza. I want you to 'elp out this young friend o' mine. She's lookin' for some place to lay her 'ead.'

'Another waif 'n' stray, is it, Marie?' Liza was in her mid-thirties, with bright ginger hair.

'Fallen on 'ard times, she has. Needs an 'elping 'and and I knew you were just the gel to give it.'

'Come on in.' Liza opened the door wider and they stepped inside, straight into what Eleanor thought must once have been the living room but was now almost filled by a large table covered in cloth and suiting. A middle-aged man was bent over it.

'This is Bert,' Liza said, and the man glanced up and nodded and then went on plying his scissors across a piece of cloth.

It's probably clean, Eleanor considered, though it was hard to tell as practically every surface and both of the chairs were covered in sewing materials. She wondered how Bert could see to sew, as the only light came from an oil lamp which threw out a dim glow.

'She needs a room,' Marie said, nodding her head towards Eleanor. 'Just got herself a nice little occupation in Oxford Street. In a mourning shop.' She raised her voice at this and Bert looked up and gave a grimace, muttering something about folks having more money than sense.

'I've only got the garret,' Liza said. 'The other room's full. You'll not want to share?'

'Oh, no!' Eleanor said, hoping this refusal would be her way out of accepting.

'Well, you can 'ave the garret to yourself,' Liza said. 'Though I'll 'ave to charge you two bob a week for it if you won't share.'

There was a sudden disturbance under the table and out crept two children, a boy and a girl; each gave Eleanor a shy grin.

'If you come,' the boy said, 'we'll be able to 'ave meat pie 'n' gravy.'

Liza swiped at him. 'That's enough from you. Get back under the table.' She apologized to Eleanor, saying that they were banished under there until Bert had finished his cutting out. 'If he spoils the cloth we can't afford to buy any more, and we don't get paid until it's finished.'

'I see!' Eleanor murmured, wondering if the rent for the garret meant the difference between their eating or not. 'Could I see the room, please?'

Liza led her up a narrow staircase to a small landing and then up an even narrower stair to the top of the house. 'It's dry,' she said, 'unless it rains.'

Eleanor gazed at her, nonplussed.

'Then it comes in at the far corner,' Liza went on, 'but we keep a bucket at the ready.'

'There's no fire,' Eleanor remarked, looking round the room. There was just a bed, a chair and a washstand; a very small window set in the cracked, sloping ceiling let in a shaft of light. 'It will be very cold.'

'I'll put an 'ot brick in the bed every night and bring you 'ot water for washing every morning; and see to the chamber pot as well if you've a mind. All for the same price, as well as a bit o' supper of a night.'

Eleanor could hear the pleading in Liza's voice and she thought of the children downstairs under the table.

'All right,' she said. 'I'll take it. Will you have it ready for tomorrow?'

'Yes, miss,' Liza said. 'I've got clean sheets aired and ready to put on.'

'Thank you,' Eleanor said. 'Would you like a week's rent in advance?' And then I'll have very little money left, she thought, barely enough for the omnibus. I think I might have to walk to work. Yet the gratitude on Liza's face convinced her that she had done the right thing.